


Fix You

by Peradion



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood and Gore, Gen, M/M, Other, Past Child Abuse, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, cheesy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 07:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18868900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peradion/pseuds/Peradion
Summary: “Mediocrity will never do. You are capable of something better.” —Gordon B. Hinckley





	Fix You

It was a booming, bloody summer. It was the summer John F. Kennedy's life was snuffed out, and everything began to degrade into a cursed hellspawn.

Teufort had been a war zone—obviously, in both a literal and figurative sense. The sun took to hiding behind the clouds more days than not. There were more storms—hot and ragged and unbearable storms—than the nice sunny days the men residing there so craved. How the thunder would boom, and the hallways would echo and groan. How the doors would slam and creak, and all anyone could do was pray for salvation.

Sometimes, the building was invaded at night. The enemy team would sneak in—pick locks, destroy things, attempt to take what they wanted with no regard for anyone or anything else. And yet, success never came. Sentries were always set up. Always firing. Always breaking. Always being rebuilt.

Dell Conagher had no intention to stop staying up, the way he did, inventing and building and fixing and destroying. For a man with little to hide, he held far too secrets deep within his breast, festering, infecting the tissue holding it. But what did he care? It didn't matter what the second eldest of the Conagher offspring thought. Radigan Conagher was who really mattered. He may have been dead and in the ground—but he was the legacy that which Dell was forced to carry on. The inventor of the life-extending machine left behind empty shoes that Dell was certain he had to fill—even if right now, they were too big.

One, two, three days he'd stayed up without sleep—or had it been more?—when Teufort was springing back to life, whilst he hadn't been alive to begin with. His hands moved slowly, shaking some, as he looked at one of the broken pieces of his latest creation, goggles fixed to his face tightly, with no intention of letting anyone see what he hid underneath.

His skin felt foreign. It was like he was someone else living in a body that wasn't his own. Like a stranger entered his house, turned on all the lights and then left, refusing to pay the bill. His gloves were sitting on the desk, whilst he sat on the floor, pieces of a machine he smashed in a fit of emotional instability strewn all over the floor. He exhaled a heavy sigh, hungry—why did he wait so long to eat?—still holding the shattered pieces of his new project. So much for attempting to make his mark that night. It wasn't like he was trying to invent a device that worked on a global level to connect people. Though perhaps that would have been a goal. No matter. The sandwiches called for him.

He approached his door, reaching for the knob when he heard shouting—mostly from the soldier, Jane Doe.   
"HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, MAGGOT! YOU THINK YOU CAN STEAL FROM ME!? JOHN F. KENNEDY DIDN'T JUST DIE FOR A PIECE OF FILTH LIKE YOU TO BREAK THE RULES—!"

He wasn't sure how that made sense. Dell's mind was fogged with exhaustion, unable to find the energy to care. There was a series of rapid footsteps sounding through the hallways, and a shout of, "Gotta go fast!"

Just a normal day at Teufort. Normal as it can get, anyway.

He put on his smile as he left his room, thankful that his goggles easily hid the exhaustion apparent in his eyes. Maybe he could finally sleep after he ate something. But no—no sleep could be had when there was so much to do and so few hours in a day.

Upon first entering the dining room, the first thing he saw was Jeremy rounding the table, trying to escape the aim of the rocket launcher Jane carried with him. He was fast, jumping over obstacles (chairs). Dell's lips twitched, but his smile remained. He took to the counter, deciding to indulge in some coffee, taking note of the people at the table so far—Mundy, sitting in an almost eerily still pose, gripping his own mug. Was he awake, or asleep? Maybe he'll never know. Medic—happily drinking his coffee, eating a piece of toast with honey on it—sitting beside Heavy, who was, of course, eating a sandwich. And...Spy. Drinking his own coffee, balaclava on his face already. He supposed his face would be off limits for any of these fuckers to see. It only made sense.

"Mornin', y'all," Dell greeted, still feigning his happiness. All the coffee was gone. More than likely, Mundy had drank it all to keep him awake for a job he had to do on the side. No biggie—he'll just make more. Just his luck, though. Nothing can ever be easy in a place like Teufort.

" _Guten_   _morgen_ ,  _Dell_!" Medic greeted, somehow...happy. What a lucky bastard. "Did you sleep vell?"

Shit.

"I slept just fine, buddy," he answered, composed, laid back, waiting for the coffee machine to do its job. "Any idea what's goin' on with Jeremy and Jane? I heard Jane hollerin' this mornin'. Somethin' happen?"

"Leetle man is causing trouble," Heavy answered, to the best of his ability. English was a bitch, and Engie assumed Medic would understand the struggle best, being German and all. "Made the soldier angry."

"Ja, I heard he stole somezing from ze soldier," Medic added, "Vhatever he stole, he must be hiding. Nozing a little torture couldn't reveal."

Dell nodded, not even looking at them. He kept watching as the coffee machine toiled to work. He still tried to smile, ignoring Spy's piercing look boring into his back. His overalls were stained with the oil he used to loosen the gears of some of his inventions. His gloves were still missing. The seam on his arm was unbearably visible. He'd had yet to change into comfortable clothes—in fact, the clothes he wore more than likely needed a wash. Good thing the next day would be a washing day.

There was more shouting, an explosion—and quite a bit of swearing. He gripped his mug tighter, gearing up to smash the coffee pot. But finally, it produced the soul-saving black-as-night liquid. In that moment, he could swear, the angels sprung from nowhere, and started singing melodically right in his ear. Having his coffee meant no one dies.

He took his seat at the table, beside the very,  _very_  attractive French spy, shrouded in mystery. He sipped his coffee sparingly, wanting to wake up before he ate anything, so he could at least enjoy the taste in its entirety. And the Frenchman eyed him, blue green eyes vaguely exhibiting something akin to apathy, his pale, somewhat dry lips locked around an unlit cigarette—Medic would never let him live it down if he started smoking in the dining room as they ate—in an attempt to fight away his urge to smoke.

The Texan didn't pay attention. He sipped his coffee, not caring that the bitter taste jostled his senses almost as much as the loud arguing from Jeremy and Jane. It was much gentler, in fact. It singed his tongue, but there was no recoil.

"You aren't going to eat?" Spy spoke up, gesturing the empty space before the engineer—who was essentially chugging his coffee by that point. He may as well chug the entire pot. He was just too tired.

"In a sec. Jus' need ta wake up," he answered, setting down his mug gently.   
And that was that. He was left to his devices, drinking his coffee—thinking. Maybe, just maybe, if he got more done, he'd at least get a letter from his family this time around. Fill those shoes, work until both your hands fall off. Just keep going.

The day progressed. It moved on without meaning. Dell sat at the table—daydreaming, in the dim of the artificially lit kitchen, coffee mug filled with the tar that he drank to keep the fire that kept dying out. He listened with a blank face to all the conversation—Tavish's drunken ramblings, Jeremy's screams as Jane blew him up with the rocket launcher, and so on. Even Heavy and Medic's faint conversation in...Russian? He didn't know the German even knew any Russian. But what else did he expect of an insane doctor with strange numbers tattooed onto his wrist?   
Dell had other things to worry about, anyway.

It'd been too long between when he last slept, and the present. He couldn’t even figure out what the day was—Monday? Wednesday? No, no. Maybe a Friday. He was left to his thoughts as time moved on without him. One by one, everyone left to do their own things, starting with Medic, who rushed to attend to Jeremy as he screamed out in pain from the rocket launcher. Something about his legs. "My leg!" he whined and cried and groaned in agony. Just, over and over again. "My leg!" Annoying. Heavy rushed out after him to assist, seeing as how Medic was also a workaholic and all his doves were no help in treating his patients. Mundy also left, to see to it that his friend—or, the way Dell saw it, secret love interest—be treated well, before he went off to get some headshots in for some extra payment. Where Tavish went, Dell didn't know. Probably off to get drunk and decapitate people again. Spy...was the last to leave. Possibly off to his smoking room. Surprisingly, he didn't see or hear a thing from the fiery manchild known as Pyro that morning. And wherever Jane went, he stayed, for the rest of the day, stewing in his anger. He worked and worked. He toiled and sweated and strained in trying to think of something to fix his little problem, only to find nothing.

_Look_ _it_ _you._  He heard it in the darkness.  _Yer no better than ya no good daddy._

"Radigan...?" Dell was caught off guard, looking about wildly for the source of the voice. "That you...?"

_Lookit you._  Dell shuddered. The voice was practically right in his ear.  _Takin' all this shit. Letting everybody hold ya back. Why can't y_ _a_ _be a man, Dell?_ _What on God's green earth happened to ya? Yer no Conagher._

"I-I  _am_  a Conagher. Ain't nothin' holdin' me back." Panic began to inflate in the Texan man's chest. "I-I've got eleven P.H.ds, I was hand picked to be here—!"

_That ain't mean shit, boy. Y'ain't done shit, n y'ain't gonna be shit 'less ya do somethin' about it._

Dell sharply inhaled, shaking, reaching up with an ungloved hand to try and soothe the pain in his head. God, the headaches were getting worse.

"What do I do...? H-how do I fix it?"

_Don't be stupid, Dell. Y'know what ya gotta do. It worked once for you, it'll work again, won't it?_

"I-I don't want to...!"

_Ya wanted to when ya lost that hand of yours. Ya gotta do it again._

Dell hesitated at the table, practically on the verge of hyperventilation. He sniffled.

_Don't cry, ya pussy. Or yer daddy'll beat ya senseless again._

"I-I'm not." Dell wiped his nose, staring at his half finished, half destroyed blueprints. "I ain't cryin', Radigan."

_You wanna fill some shoes, don't ya?_

_"_ I do."

_Ya gotta be a man, Dell. Be a man. Be me. Be R_ _a_ _digan Conagher._

"Radigan...Conagher..." Dell mumbled, exhausted, almost plagued with delirium, desperate for the validation he so craved. Slowly, he settled down again, hands on his face, holding back tears as he thought of what he had to do—remembering the initial stinging of the first cut, his arm tingling with the phantom ache of his lost limb. He held his head, trying to recover from the intense headache. And he still heard those whispers. He still listened. He still relived every painful memory that sprung to mind in the wake of his obsession. And immediately, he began to work. He pulled out his blueprints, and began to work, again. He began to draw mindlessly, covering it to the best of his ability. He spent the day there. In that same spot, just working, drinking his coffee.

Eventually, Spy returned, smelling of smoke. Dell was right—he went to his smoking room. It was the only place he could've gone.

"Ya need somethin', Spy?"

Those overalls looked loose. Incredibly loose. Like he'd lost about ten or so pounds, and was working on losing more. Those gloved hands still moved, too—like if they stopped, he'd be consumed by the darkness of his own heart. Like he was constantly running from a truth he couldn't face.

"Let me guess, you still haven't eaten anything?"

"Don't need to. Not hungry."

"I'm sure not eating is making you a much more productive laborer. Congratulations."

"Don't got time ta eat." Dell's voice, his sweet, friendly voice, was even and plain, like he was too tired to keep up with the charade. As though saying, "Don't even think of me."

Spy was silent, approaching the engineer, an almost lethally serious look on his face—mouth a thin line, eyes focused on the shorter man with brows harsh, down bent. He stood straight, practically looming over the shorter male, frustration gripping his heart as if for dear life.

"I'm fine, Buddy. I need to work." Dell asserted, as though knowing what he was thinking without even looking at him.

"You know you'll pass out if you don't eat, don't you? Oh, but that should work  _swimmingly_  for you, shouldn't it?"

"I'll be fine." Dell sighed, setting down his pencil to reach for his coffee—only to grab his oil canister, lacking it's top, and take a long swig, causing Spy to pause and stare in shock as it downed it like it was nothing, setting down the then empty oil canister before going back to modifying the blueprints before he went back to building up the machine from the inside out.

Five minutes passed of Spy watching him in horror. Until finally, Dell looked at his canister, paused, and then said, "...Oh. That was oil." He shrugged, setting it down, and going back to drawing out his blueprints.

"...Ugh! You're  _impossible!_ "

Spy stormed out of the room, sickened, headed straight for Medic's office. He walked fast, entirely troubled by what was overtaking his friend. Dell just remained. Drawing mindlessly on the blue paper.

Spy wasted no time in making it to Medic's office, barging in without warning, strictly because when it came to Dell drinking motor oil, fucking  _motor oil_ , he needed to act fast. And if anyone knew how to act, it was Ludwig. He gripped the door knob in a tight grip, so tight that his knuckles went white beneath his gloves. 

  
"Medic." Spy paused, before he said more, taking notice of Medic caring for injuries to Scout's legs, most likely from Jane's rocket launcher. The medic didn't even seem to notice him at first.

"You must be careful, Herr Scout," he scolded, "If you received any damage vorse zan zis, you might've lost ze use of your legs." His gentle hands wrapped the slightly damaged flesh in medical gauze, to keep infection from seeping into open, bloodied wounds. "Zere. Wunderbar! You should be all set."

"Hey, thanks for helpin' me, Doc," Scout answered, giving his legs an experimental kick as soon as Medic stepped away, just to make sure they were still functional. "I dunno what I would've done if I lost my legs,"

"You don't have to vorry about zat, Herr Scout. Rest for a vhile und you vill be just fine." he encouraged, turning away from him to face the Frenchman, an almost sinister grin on his face. And of course this gave Spy pause. Was he up to something? Christ, did he plant a fertilized baboon uterus in someone again?

"Can I help you, Herr Spy? Are you here for  _ein k_ _ö_ _rperliche_?"

"Uh—No, I'm actually here to speak with you about something." he lowered his voice, taking notice of his son dressing again, having had to take off his pants for better access to his damaged legs. He was thankful Scout could at least get immediate attention. His legs were his life. No legs meant his life was over.

"Ja? Vhat about?" Medic gave him a curious look, sinister grin fading just slightly. "Ist etwas falsch?"

"It's about Dell."

"Vhat about him?" Medic raised a brow, gesturing they come away from the door to discuss the situation. As Scout redressed, he couldn't help but listen as the two spoke—

"I'm concerned about his health," Spy began, quietly. "I've noticed he's...deteriorating, in a certain sense."

"You aren't ze only one who's noticed, Herr Spy," Medic quietly answered, "I conducted his physical zis morning, und I noticed zat he's lost veight. Not so much zat he is unhealzy, but enough zat I am wondering if he's even really eating."

Spy frowned, eyebrows furrowed, as he grew more uneasy.

"I saw him drink motor oil today,"

"Vhat?"

"He must've been reaching for his coffee. He drank from an oil canister, and let about five minutes pass before he realized it wasn't coffee, and just went right back to work."

"I...oh." Medic grew concerned—his face contorting from that grin into a very slightly disgusted look.

"What do I do?"

"Vhat do you mean?"

"He drank motor oil and it didn't even faze him. What do I do?"

"Vell...I'd suggest keeping a closer eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do zat anymore. Und make sure he sleeps, too—I don't zink he's been resting."

"Aren't you...Aren't you concerned?"

"Herr Spy, zis is Dell ve're talking about."

With that, Medic turned away—and Spy grumbled to himself in his native tongue, reaching for his cigarette case. God, he needed a smoke. Scout watched him leave—and followed him out, having heard it all, and felt his nerves begin to grate. 

  
"What the hell was that?" Scout snapped, as soon as the two of them were outside the office, alone. Spy placed the cigarette between his lips, searching for his lighter in the jacket of his suit.

"What was what?" he inquired, greenish eyes focused on something else—anything else—than the face too familiar to bear. He pulled out his lighter, flicking open the top.

"What you were saying to Medic. The fuck was that, man?"

"The engineer is in need of serious help. Don't tell me you haven't noticed." He tried to flick the trigger of the lighter. It just stalled.

"What, suddenly you have a sense of responsibility? Since when have you been fuckin' responsible, dipshit?" Scout stepped closer, daring Spy to look at him as he spoke. He never did.

"He drank motor oil for christ's sake, Scout." The lighter finally clicked on, and the Frenchman lit his cigarette, standing straight, back toward the Bostonian man.

"What about when I was three and you said you'd be right back—?"

"That was different. I don't have anywhere to run here."

Scout fell silent, glaring daggers at the Frenchman. Spy took a long puff of his cigarette, his chest tightening.

"So you can be Dell's dad, but you couldn't be mine?"

There was a pause. Then the intense pain in his chest, the paradoxical cold of the retort burning his chest as it was gripped by regret. His heart shuttered. For a moment, he had nothing to respond with verbally. Just a look. And when Scout saw it, his glare began to fade, as though baffled, before he scoffed.

"Fuck you. Fuckin' backstabber."

With that, he left. And Spy was left to wonder about how he'd fix all the mistakes he made. Only to realize, it was possibly too late.

He took Medic's advice, simultaneously pushing away the fact that he betrayed his paternal instincts and ran from the responsibility in fear. Like a coward. But now, he knew he couldn't leave the Texan like this. He had Dell's schedule—About seven o'clock at night, he would return to his room and work. Sleep was uncertain—but Spy would find out, if it was the last thing he did.

It was easy enough to slip into the room and wait, half an hour before he was to return. His invisibility really did do wonders. And he waited. He waited for the Texan to return, so he could see that he was okay—that he slept. That the weight loss he exhibited was by way of proper taking care of himself, even if it was unnecessary at the moment. That the motor oil incident was just a one-off.

And he watched as his partner worked with a hope that, hopefully, everything would be okay. That he would just get back to work, like nothing was wrong. Even when Dell came in and shut the door softly, he seemed strangely okay. Even if he wasn't smiling. Spy grinned a little in hope that it'd be okay, only for his hopes to be dashed, and his grin to fall, fading into unadulterated concern.

There it was.

Dell. Gripping his favored hand saw in his trembling, gloveless hands. Taking several deep breaths, as though trying to calm down, the cursed words of his deceased elder ringing forever in his ear. Calm, calm. Be at peace. Be better, he said to himself. You have to be better. Be a man. Be Radigan.

The cold of the steel was unbearable. It was rested very, very lightly above the skin—no puncturing yet. Even if he were gushing blood, it wouldn't be an issue. He'd already set up, and made sure it'd all be caught. His leg was outstretched, overalls off, so he had better access to the flesh that screamed for action. The new leg sat close, for quick attachment. Thank the lord he had enough sense to install a program that helped heal the sight of the amputation.

Spy could do nothing but watch for a moment in horror as Dell prepared for his mutilation, emptying the bottle of alcohol in a span of a few minutes—was it vodka? Whiskey? He couldn't tell from his position, standing invisibly in the room—as he tried to man up and brace himself for the loss of his limb. Spy's greenish eyes searched for any signal that this was a joke—that his friend was not about to saw off his  _fucking leg_  in his room. Dell just drank and drank, before abandoning the bottle, sniffling, unable to even entertain the idea of holding back the salty tears that threatened to spill over. He picked up a marker and set the felt tip just beneath the knee, his hands trembling as he marked where he needed to cut. Tied the gag around his mouth to silence him for probably the thousandth time in his life. He took position. And the first cut came slowly—like a cat scratch, almost. Blood beaded at the line, threatening to spill over. The second cut was deeper. Like a papercut. Third cut—deeper, deeper still. It was like he was too drunk to go all the way and saw the limb all the way off.

This was the breaking point. Spy came forward, hands reaching out of nowhere to rip the saw from his friend's hand before the cut got too deep—the crimson waterfall from his leg was enough to urge him to vomit. Dell made a sound of surprise—muffled by his gag—as his fake arm was pulled up, the hands prying his little calloused fingers from the handle of the blade.

"Let go of me—!" Dell managed through the gag as Spy made himself visible again, gripping him tightly by the arms to get him to stop fighting. His face was twisted into a faux glare, staring directly into the Texan's eyes, never faltering, never ceasing.

"What has gotten into you?" Spy gruffly responded, "What on  _god's green earth_ are you doing cutting off your  _leg_?"

"You better fuckin' let go of me!" Dell snapped, anger overtaking all sense as he just fought harder, despite how the blood gushed from his pale flesh and his tears ran down his face. "I'll fuckin'  _fuck you up_  if ya don't let go!"

The threats fell on deaf ears. Spy scoffed at him, forcing him against the wall, but Dell was strong. Dell tried to punch at him, to which Spy punched right back—knocking off his goggles, and forcing Spy to pause. A scar. Around Dell's right eye. It was discolored, a slightly darker hue than his skin tone, running from near his ear to just over his brow, jagged, as though someone had attempted to stab out his eyes, or bashed his head enough times to leave him with cuts that would never heal. Spy grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him against the wall, using all his weight to hold him there.

"Stop fighting." he ordered, voice deep and gravelly. "Stop fighting and look at me, you coward."

" _Fucking let go of me!_ "

"Violence isn't going to help you here, now _calm down._ "

Dell was taking rapid, panicked breaths, smelling heavily of alcohol, tourmaline eyes glimmering with wet tears like a gem freshly washed in the cleansing water of God. The anger was still on his face. But Spy was gentle, uncharacteristically so, as he took his face in his hands, still using his body's weight to keep him there.

"Just take a deep breath and  _calm down."_

Memories flashed through his mind as he struggled to find his peace. He was frozen, staring into those sea-green eyes—only able to see the terrible things that the cruel hands of fate started his life with.

This isn't to say he led an awful life; he had a roof over his head, and food on the table. He had some nights to go out and watch the fireflies flit about in the dark, trying to find their own ways.

Had his father not beat him senseless and practically hand delivered him to death's door, he probably would've gotten along better with his family. Hell, maybe he would've been  _close_ with his father.

All he could see at first was the way his father bashed him in the face with a beer bottle, breaking it, sending glass flying everywhere—and engaged him in a fist fight, kicking him, only stopping when his older brother said "Enough is enough."

And everyone just moved on, even as he was bleeding on the floor, close to unconsciousness. It was like nothing ever happened. Like he got what he deserved, and no one felt sorry for him. His dear old mama patched him up and sent him off—and God knows he would've died if she hadn't been around to help following the fight.

It was no better than seeing his grandfather cut off his own leg. Being only about ten at the time didn't help.

_Be Radigan._

"Dell?"

"...Radigan," he managed, his panic still there. "I gotta work. I gotta work."

"Dell, look at me." Spy leaned in, sea green eyes boring into the smoldering tourmaline abyss. "This has to stop. Right now."

"I-I..." Dell took a breath, suddenly snapped from the memory of all that blood, the screaming, the way it looked when he attached that god forsaken tin piece to his leg. "...Wh-wha...?"

Spy sighed. He still kept him pressed against the wall.

"Are you calm now?"

"I-I...think so." Dell reached up to see about fixing his goggles, only to realize they'd been knocked off, and frown as he did.

"I'm waiting for an explanation. What the  _hell_ was all of that, Dell?"

"I-I...thought that, if I got rid of...of whatever was holding me back, I could..." Dell paused.

"So you thought cutting off your  _leg_ would help your success rate? Are you  _insane_?"

"You don't understand." Spy finally let go of Dell as he began to speak. "...Radigan Conagher is my grandfather. You have no idea what it's like."

Spy suddenly looked troubled.  _Now_ it all made sense. The room fell silent. Dell picked up his goggles, and took note of his still bleeding leg.

"...Listen. Whatever you think your purpose in life is, don't try and fill up shoes that don't belong to you." Dell had to sit down, as there was a red waterfall gushing down his leg. "Man up. Be yourself. You don't have to be the best just because Radigan Conagher is your grandfather." There was a pause. 

"I know that." Dell stared at his goggles. "...I just wanted everyone to be proud of me. But they look at me like I'm broken. And I can't...I can't fix myself."

Spy watched the man before him, before he began to search for a cloth to cease the bleeding. In his search, he glanced to the spot where he tried to cut off his leg—and took notice of the thick packet of notes, yellowed pages dotted with blood both dark and fresh, and faded and old.

"...You aren't broken, Dell. I can't fix you. However...I have an idea."

Twenty-five stitches, a long lecture, and a long consolation later, the two men found themselves outside, embraced by a summer's night, watching the packet of notes burn on top of a pile of sticks and branches collected specifically for a fire. Dell watched, blank-faced, still sniffling, holding back his tears.

"...I know this is hard, Dell." he began, watching the way those yellowed pages curled and warped from the heat. "You have our support."

"I'm sorry..." The Texan rubbed his burning eyes. God, why couldn't he stop crying?

Spy said nothing to the apology. Just watched the papers burn. Until finally, he began to speak again.

"...Dominique."

"What?"

"...That's my name."

Dell fell silent again, staring up at the man in absolute surprise. Spy spared him no attention other than that, but still kept an arm wrapped around him, to Dell's surprise. The Texan's cheeks were flush. But it was an easy excuse to say it was because of the heat from the fire.

"...Thank you, Dominique."

"It's not a problem,  _mon_ _ciel étoilé_." he answered, taking the Texan man off guard again by pressing a soft kiss against his cheek, intending fully on providing the affection that this man had been  _clearly_ denied throughout his life. As the smoke rose and billowed about carelessly above them, Dell smiled, despite how his tears continued to stream down on his face.

Finally.

Finally, he was free.


End file.
